Here's some conspiracy for you, brought to you by me, yours truly.
Martha Nussbaum was born May 6th. She is a Taurus. She is a prolific writer, and well-regarded intellectual. Her first and only husband was a Sagittarius (December 17).
Jane Jacobs is another prolific writer and brilliant observer. She was born on May 4th. Her largest foe in the field was Robert Moses (December 18), a Sagittarius.
None of this means anything, but it's kind of fun to have a way to sketch people's lives out on a template that somewhat maps onto something within reach of my own.
I understand people and birthdays and celebrations and what it means for someone to "act like a Taurus". I don't understand brilliant authors and philosophers and what it was like to be a smart strong academic woman in the 20th century. But I can understand their birthdays.
Tauruses all remind my of a friend that is no longer a friend, because I did not know how to not let her go.
I spent most of today waiting in line for confession, only to discover that the priest had turned his light off a few hours ago. I'm not sure why no one passed the message back, down to the rest of the parishioners that had been forced to wait outside, in the muggy heat, but they didn't pass it back or down and there we were, stuck outside.
I'm 98% certain that nothing will have changed by Friday, and that we'll be yet again stuck outside in the heat.
People talk a lot about how writing is cathartic. It is, but not in the way that other people find it, I don't think. Certainly, it is an outlet, but for what I'm not exactly sure. Words that are easy to type are often not easy to say, or even would be or could be said, even if I wanted them to.
There are many things that I want to talk about, but most of all I think that typing is just a way of getting exercise for my fingers. At times I wonder if this is the sole reason that I do alright as a software programmer -- it's because at the end of the day I so love the small, minute movements that are required to produces, to execute, to make and get paid. I'm admittedly not very accurate but that's not nearly so important as the need to type to move to put fingers to keys and to feel my thoughts become physical in the depressive act of keystrokes.
Perhaps I would make a great piano player. Perhaps this is why I was good at the bassoon.
But what are perhaps? Perhaps it's time to stop asking. There is such a thing as being scattered about, but I'm not sure what the answer is to not being so scattered.
The dog is sleeping. It is also time for me to sleep, poor thing. She waits so long for me to move, to do, to go.
I will be tired again tomorrow, but there is no relief from the ever pounding need to know, to do to execute.
If there is no pride in doing, why do? If there is no utter joy in the extension of the will into reality, into the physical being, why produce? If the perhaps have been investigated and fully found out, then why continue asking? What new novelties await a thing already known?
What questions are these?
There is an excellent profile of Martha Nussbaum in this week's edition of the New Yorker. It's what started off the thoughts of conspiracy (a deep curiosity to understand more about what her world view might have encompassed), and a deep sense of kinship.
I found it marvelous that one could go into a field that is so welcoming to autobiography as the field of philosophy. The whole field feels appears to be a large group of people, sitting around pondering how other's autobiographies reflect, guide and shape their own.
How lovely, don't you think?
 The best thing to do, in the face of impending doom and destruction is to really dig into what ever it is that you find interesting and delightful and zany about the world.
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